


Coffee, Two Sugars

by beaubete



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Gen, more a drabble than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffeeshop AU: John notices the customer--who wouldn't?--and decides it's time to say something about the way he stares at the young girls in the shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee, Two Sugars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for areyoutryingtodeduceme on tumblr because she had a craving for Sherlock coffeeshop AUs.

When he finally notices the trend, John is concerned: it looks like the tall bloke is coming in to watch the teenaged girls. John’s noticed him coming in—six foot easy, in flat shoes, and wearing that ridiculous jacket that billows like he’s a character from Harry Potter, who’d have missed him?—for a week now, always at 4 in the afternoon, even on the days he’s off—Kate assures him it’s so. He sits in the corner of the shop nursing an espresso so tall and so strong that John’s a little bit surprised that there’s still paint on the wall behind him, and he watches. It’s subtle; John had taken him for an actor-type, people-watching to get ideas for his next part, like so many of the kids who come in and sit in that exact seat: broke enough to afford one tea bag and all the hot water they can stomach, sticking around just to watch the other customers and enviously eye the pastries in the case. It’s none of John’s business, even though they take up space that could be used by other customers. He understands being broke—his pension is meager enough that he’d snapped up the first job he could find, rather than waiting for an hospital job, and that had nothing to do with the fine tremor that runs from his shoulder to his fingertips and back again, thank you very much—and he understands the need to do something, even something as pointless as this.

But the bloke has been in regularly for the last week and a half—John’s had two Thursdays sitting on his couch staring at the wall, and two Fridays wishing he had someone to call to meet at the pub—and John has formed a hypothesis which he believes has been confirmed. The bloke’s eyes are always moving restless, but he’s noticed they land on the girls more often than not, today just as much as they did yesterday and back on Wednesday, too, and John won’t have it. Those girls—he thinks maybe they’re students at the uni down the street; girls may not even be appropriate, but they’re his girls, his customers, and he feels a twinge of protectiveness over the way they don’t even seem to notice they’re being stalked—are paying customers, and whatever distaste he may have for the fact that they consistently order their drinks as frilly and silly as possible—and use the terms from Starbucks to do it, as if Kate’s is in any way analogous to that behemoth of a fast-food coffee chain—he will not let them be bothered by some chap who works hard to stretch one espresso, however tall the glass he’s drinking it from—is it more like six or seven espressos? The guy looks like maybe he’s strung out on more than caffeine either way—into a meal for several hours.

Right. That’s it. John picks up the mug in front of him, polishing it firmly with his dishrag, and decides. He’s going to go over and give this guy what-for. The girls are picking up purses and coats, giggling as they get ready to leave, and the minute the bell rings behind them, Professor Snape gets up. John sets the mug down on the counter with a soft thud, shucks his apron over his head, and heads out the door after him, mumbling something about his break. He catches up to the guy two blocks down at the corner; John’s a bit winded from how quickly they’ve gotten there, but the guy looks like he’s waiting impatiently.

“Well, come along then, if you’re coming!” the guy says, striding off in what’s probably a random direction; John can’t be sure, aside from the fact that he’s got to run to keep up. They dash down packed London streets until they’re outside of a huge stone building, offices of some sort. The man grabs John when he moves forward, pulling him into the shadow just as the girls arrive, splintering in different directions.

“Now see here, fellow,” John starts.

“Shut up,” the man interrupts. “Look. The one in the yellow coat. She’s waiting for someone, but it’s not just her; they’re all in on it. It was the one with the blue leggings last time, and the one with the earrings the time before. Every three days, one of them stands here waiting while the others pretend she’s gone inside to work. And every three days, an important businessman from this building comes to in a cheap motel, robbed of more than his dignity and sense of shame.”

“Prostitution ring?” John asks, breathless.

“Of course not. Don’t be stupid,” the man says. “Corporate espionage.”

“What? Who does that?” John says, laughing. “Go on, pull the other one.”

“I assure you it’s done. How do you think a group of university students from middle class families can afford to come into your shop every day and pay those exorbitant rates you charge for steamed sugar and milk and coffee flavor?”

“Exorbitant—? Now, mate, you buy coffee every day, too, and I can tell you that your order is a lot more expensive than any they have, maybe even a couple of them together, not to mention incredibly stupid; an espresso that size every day ought to kill you, you know.”

“It’s in a queue for the honor. And I did say they’re middle class, attending an expensive university for the dramatic arts; realistically, they ought to be struggling financially, and yet they’re not. Well, this is why: Morgan and Bernsley has agreed to pay them very handsomely for each one of their rivals’ secrets they can attain. Today is different, though. Did you bring your gun?”

“My—?” The change in subject throws him and John flinches back, fingers coming to his waistband and the pistol he has secured there. “I live in a dangerous neighborhood, and closing the shop up at night, I—”

“I don’t care,” the man says abruptly. “Did you bring it? We may need it today.”

“It’s not like I use it willy-nilly on civilians,” John protests.

“Of course not; only to threaten. The tremor in your arm makes you too scared to load it to do anything else. You could train that tremor, you know. It’s not as bad as your nerves make it out to be. Being shot was traumatic, and it makes sense that you would be upset by it.”

“How did you—?” John asks.

“Quite simple: you favor your right hand when pouring, but your movements are more practiced with your left—you’re afraid of having an accident; very sensible, as your boss keeps her steamer set to three degrees above the recommended safe temperature—but when you’re not paying attention or reacting to sudden stimuli, you show no issue with using your left—you’re left-handed but don’t trust yourself—psychosomatic response to trauma: you don’t know that you’re quite a bit farther along in healing than you think you are, so a recent injury, sudden. Unexpected, but you don’t have any fear around the blades you use in the shop—not a knife wound, then—and you cannot stand to work with the coworker who slams the cover on the blender—not that I blame you; he’s a berk—because the noise upsets you. It sounds nothing like gunfire, by the way; that’s all your traumatized brain torturing you, though I’m sure you’re aware of that. 

“You work at a coffee shop for a pittance, likely—took the first job available because you’re insecure of your place here; you’ve just returned from being away, then, and in a role you felt suited but cannot return to; turned out? But no, with the injury and the way you stand, as if waiting for orders: discharged. Defense force, then, likely army, something to do with your hands, skilled work. Judging from the length of your hair and the sun bleaching, somewhere with a lot of sun and doing something without a helmet, so not disarmament—doctor, perhaps, or radio technician, though a radio technician would be less likely to disregard his own safety in the face of others’. Recent conflicts: Afghanistan or Iraq? You kept your gun for sentimental reasons, but your flat is a dive in a cheap neighborhood; you make a pretense of hiding it but not enough that it hinders your ability to bring it out in a pinch. You should keep it somewhere other than the small of your back, though—it ruins the line of your trousers. Find a holster.”

“That’s…,” John says, mouth falling open. “That’s brilliant.” The man raises a brow. “No, really, that’s just—”

“Now be quiet and keep your eyes out for any trouble.”

“Who are you, then? Some kind of detective?” John asks quietly.

“Consulting,” the man says, the corner of his mouth turning up. John suspects it’s his version of a proud smile.

“A consulting detective? Never heard of it.”

“That’s because I made it up. Now shut up and be handy with that gun,” the man says, taking several broad steps into the sunlight toward the girl, who’s talking with a businessman. They look like they’re arguing. John follows, unsure what’s going on. “No, no, mate, you got it all wrong!” the man says loudly, backing away from John. “I didn’t know she was your girl!”

John stares at him, flabbergasted, until he catches on. “Yeah, well you should have thought of that before you took my Shelley out on the town!” he accuses. The man raises a brow encouragingly before falling back into character, his face crumpling.

“Shelley told me she was single! She didn’t even mention you!” he cries, and now they’re close enough that John can see the girl’s wrist in the businessman’s clutch, her skin pink and taut where he’s pulling on her to get away. The man from the coffee shop backs directly into them, and John can hear the soft ringing of glass hitting the concrete before he steps on whatever it was with a sound crunch.

“You idiot!” the businessman bellows, yanking at the frightened girl’s arm. John takes the hint and swings his fist wildly, connecting with the businessman’s shoulder as the four of them back away from the busy road. There’s a crowd now, and whatever plan the businessman had is ruined; he can’t abduct her from this scene. The businessman seems to realize this just as John does, and with a mighty shove, he knocks John back, pushing away from them. The girl stands frozen as the man from the coffee shop pulls out a handkerchief and carefully lifts the pieces of a broken syringe from under his shoe.

“I’ll need to examine this further,” he says absently, folding the cloth around it before tucking it into his pocket.

“What happens now?” John asks, eager. His blood is thrumming in his veins in a way it hasn’t since his service, and this tantalizing taste of mystery intrigues him.

“I rather assume you go back to work,” the man says, and John’s heart drops. “Your break must be over by now.”

“Oh, er, yeah. Kate will be wondering,” John says through a mouth suddenly gone dry.

“Here,” the man says, holding his hand out officiously. When John looks at him, confused, he says, “Your mobile? Give it.”

John hands his mobile, a gift from Harry, over, and the man taps at the keyboard for a moment before handing it back. “Sherlock?” John reads.

“Yes. I will text you directions; come by before work tomorrow,” Sherlock tells him.

“Directions to—?”

“My flat. You are looking for a new flat, aren’t you? It just so happens I am looking for someone to help me with my rent; you are not entirely awful, and it would save you being mugged or maimed before the end of this case.” Sherlock seems to be playing cool, but he keeps glancing at John from the corner of his eye. John smiles.

“Alright then. Any particular time?”

“Anytime. I won’t be sleeping,” Sherlock says. He turns back to the girl in clear dismissal, and John starts back toward the coffee shop. The bell is bright when he walks through the front door; Kate is at the till, one brow raised in question.

“Five minutes late,” she scolds playfully. “Did you at least get his number?”

John realizes he’s still holding his mobile out; he shoves it into his pocket, flushing. “Yeah, but not because—he wants me to come over tomorrow to help him—it’s not really—”

“It’s okay, loverboy,” she tells him, laughing. “You don’t have to explain. Get back to work.”


End file.
